His father’s gaze faltered. For the briefest moment, a shadow passed over his face. “Your mother is… surviving. The physician is uncertain how long she has.”
Evander exhaled, shoulders sinking beneath the weight of the news. He had watched for years as illness chipped away at her strength. But hearing that the end might be near struck a blow deeper than he had anticipated.
“I’ve written to you,” his father said, folding his arms. “You’ve ignored my letters.”
“I’ve been occupied,” Evander replied, not looking at him.
“Too occupied for family?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” came the curt response. “I’m here because there’s something that must be discussed.”
Evander braced himself. He fully expected a rebuke about his career—about how his place was not in lecture halls but managing estates and maintaining appearances.
But as he looked at his father, he noticed something unfamiliar—weariness. The proud lines of his face sagged slightly, and for the first time, he appeared aged. Human.
His father pulled out the second chair and sank into it. “It’s about Bryon.”
Of course it was. Bryon, the golden child. The heir. The one who could do no wrong, while Evander’s accomplishments were dismissed as willful defiance.
His father hesitated. “Bryon and Lord Harwood sailed to India to oversee the indigo plantation that we had recently purchased. I received word that illness struck the passengers and they both passed away.”
Evander’s breath caught. He stared at his father, trying to reconcile the words with reality. Despite their differences, he had never wished harm to Bryon.
“Are you certain?” he asked, voice rough.
“Yes.” Tears glistened in the earl’s eyes, and his voice broke as he said, “I received confirmation three days ago.”
Evander blinked, unsure what stunned him more—the news of his brother or the sight of his father crying.
“Does Mother know?” he asked.
“No,” came the quiet reply. “I haven’t told her. I fear what it might do to her.”
Evander turned his head away, willing himself not to break. The urge to weep surged within him, but this wasn’t the time or place. He would grieve in solitude. For his brother. For his mother. For the past that would never be reclaimed.
His father’s tears were gone when he looked back, replaced by a mask of firm resolve.
“You will need to come home,” he said flatly. “You are my heir now. You will need to take your rightful place.”
Evander recoiled slightly, his mind rebelling. He had built a life here. Oxford was his sanctuary, his future. How could he make his father understand now when he had never succeeded before?
“I have obligations here,” he began slowly.
“You have a greater one now,” his father replied simply, as if that explained everything.
And with that, the room seemed to close in around him. Everything he had worked for—everything he was—stood on the edge of a precipice.
Evander shot to his feet and began pacing the length of the narrow office, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet beneath his boots. The room, small to begin with, suddenly felt suffocating.
“I can’t just leave,” he declared. “I’m in the middle of the term. I have lectures to give, papers to grade, and students depending on me.”
His father scoffed, rising from the chair with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This work”—he gestured vaguely at the shelves and papers surrounding them—“is hardly essential. You're teaching uninterested boys about long-dead kings and crumbling empires. You need to come home and help me run the estate. That’s where your focus should be. That’s what truly matters.”
“My work does matter,” Evander shot back, his voice taut with suppressed fury. “It matters to me, and to the students who actually want to learn.”
His father’s lip curled slightly, his tone patronizing. “You no longer need to labor for your keep. Bryon is gone,” he said, his voice hitching slightly. “The responsibilities fall to you now. Frankly, this academic pursuit was always beneath your station.”
